Eastern Ruins
Copyright© 2026 by Sandra Alek
Chapter 4
She pulled back from the window, breathing through her teeth. The low groans blended into a steady, grinding pressure, like the dead were pushing the walls with their presence alone.
She moved from window to window, careful with every step. Same picture everywhere—zombies drifting between cars, brushing against fences, packing the narrow street. No gaps. No patterns. No chance to slip through.
A trap.
Her pulse hammered as she checked the last window on the second floor. Then something caught her eye—a thick plank stretched from the edge of her roof to the neighbor’s. Weathered. Stable-looking. Placed there on purpose.
She stared at it, mind racing.
The man who died here ... he hadn’t been helpless. He’d built himself a route. He’d lived on the roofs, moving between houses. Maybe for weeks. Maybe months. And maybe he broke his leg on one of those jumps and never recovered.
But the idea worked.
It could work again.
Ember backed away from the window, her decision forming fast, clean, solid. She ate what she could, forcing food down until her stomach warmed. She drank until she couldn’t take more.
She studied her backpack. Heavy. Loud. A problem on the roofs.
She dropped it to the floor and left it there.
She strapped on her belt, checked her knife, holstered the pistol.
Last, she picked up the hatchet. The weight felt right in her hand—compact, simple, fast.
She moved down the hallway and stopped under the square outline in the ceiling. The attic hatch. She reached up, pulled the handle. The wooden panel clicked and dropped a few inches. A narrow folding ladder slid down with a dry scrape.
Ember paused, listening.
No reaction from outside.
Good.
She climbed quickly, feeling the old steps flex under her boots. Warm, dusty air closed around her as she pulled herself into the attic. The space was cramped—low beams, insulation spilling out of torn plastic, old boxes stacked against the walls.
The small window on the far side glowed faintly with morning light.
Ember crossed the attic on careful feet, crouching to keep her head under the rafters. She unlatched the window, pushed it open, and cold air washed across her face. The roof shingles were only a foot below the frame.
She slipped through, boots landing solidly on the sloped roof. The world outside hit her at once—the groans rising, dozens of them, maybe more. The dead shifted and pressed around the house in a restless tide.
But they couldn’t reach her up here.
Ember moved to the edge of the roof and found the plank. Thick. Weathered. Settled deep into the grooves of the shingles. The other end rested on the neighbor’s roof, maybe three meters away.
She pressed her boot on it.
No give.
No crack.
Stable.
A breath left her chest—thin, cold, but clear.
She stepped onto the plank. The height tugged at her stomach, but the path felt solid. She crossed fast, light on her feet, hatchet tight in her grip.
Three seconds later she was on the neighbor’s roof, heart pounding but steady.
She’d escaped the trap.
Ember crouched low on the roof, the hatchet resting across her thigh. She slid her free hand into her pocket and pulled out the folded map. The paper was soft from use, edges worn, a smear of dirt across the corner.
She opened it carefully and matched the lines to the world below.
Main Street ran straight south—her route. The police station sat far down that line, maybe a thirty-minute walk in normal times.
Now?
Who knew.
From the roof she could see most of the street. Cars jammed the lanes—sedans, trucks, an old school bus turned sideways near an intersection. Zombies weaved between them in slow, uneven paths, pulled toward every faint sound.
But the houses here stood tight, shoulder to shoulder. Roofs nearly touched. Gutters almost brushed. A broken antenna hung between two places like a dropped rope.
She traced the rooftops with her eyes.
If she stayed above them ... If she kept her weight steady, her steps quiet ... She could move. Not fast, but safer than the street.
Ember folded the map and tucked it away.
The path was there. Rough, uneven, dangerous—but real.
She tightened her grip on the hatchet and turned toward the next roofline.
Ember reached the last rooftop sooner than she expected. Her legs felt steady, breath calm. Moving above the streets was easier than she had imagined—quiet, almost smooth. No close calls. No hands grabbing at her boots.
But when she stepped to the edge and looked down, her stomach dropped.
The police station sat across a wide gap—more than thirty feet of open air. A broken parking lot below. Dozens of zombies drifted between the cars, some pressed against the walls, others wandering in slow circles as if waiting for something to fall into their reach.
She narrowed her eyes at the gap again.
No way to jump it. Even with a running start, she’d break both legs and drop right into the crowd.
Wind pushed her hair across her face. She brushed it aside and studied every angle—the ground, the walls, the roofs around her. The police station was lower, built from heavy concrete with a flat, empty top. Too far to reach from here.
Ember pressed her boot against the roof’s edge and leaned forward a little more, checking details.
Thirty feet. Maybe more.
Zombies shifted below, their heads lifting as they picked up some faint sound she couldn’t hear. One scraped its nails on a trunk. Another groaned, deep and empty.
She pulled back, jaw tightening.
Direct jump — impossible.
Street — suicide.
So she searched the roofs again, tracing lines, corners, gutters, ledges. There had to be another way. There always was.
Ember stepped back from the edge and let her eyes sweep the gap again.
There — not the roof. The tree.
A tall oak grew beside the station’s parking lot. Its trunk leaned toward her building, pulled that way by years of wind. One thick branch stretched almost across the gap. Not enough to reach the roof ... but close enough to grab if she jumped.
Her pulse nudged faster.
She measured the distance with her eyes: A short run. A hard push.
Grab the branch. Hold.
Then climb to the thicker limbs and work her way down toward the station’s roof.
Risky — but possible. And the only thing that looked even close to possible.
She moved to the far end of her rooftop, boots scraping lightly on old tar paper. Zombies murmured below, unaware of her plan or how close she was to dropping into their arms if she messed up even once.
Ember exhaled slowly.
The branch swayed slightly in the breeze, strong and heavy, its smaller limbs forming a crooked path toward the police station.
She nodded to herself.
This is it.
She tightened her grip on the hatchet, slid it through her belt loop, and rolled her shoulders. The run-up wasn’t long. She would get only one chance.
Ember backed up another step, felt the edge of the roof behind her heel, and leaned forward, focusing on the branch.
She could make it.
She had to.
Ember ran.
Three quick strides, a push, and the world dropped out from under her.
She flew across the gap—arms reaching, fingers spread— Her right hand caught the branch.
Her left slipped.
The branch bowed under her weight with a deep wooden groan. Ember’s boots swung over empty space, the breath punched from her lungs. For a heartbeat she hung by one arm above the street full of reaching hands.
“No—”
She grabbed again, this time catching rough bark with her left hand. Pain flared across her palm, but she held on. The branch shook, swaying, threatening to pitch her off.